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BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


A  QUARTERLY  MAGAZINE 
OF  STORIES  IN  PROFILE 


THE  ROAD  TO  FAME 

Yon  lies  the  goal  across  the  sun-scorched  plain  ! 

No  pleasure  paths  invite  the  pilgrim  band ; 

At  every  step  the  blood-red  flow'r  of  Pain, 

Set  'round  -with  thorns,  springs  from  the  burning  sand. 


Silhouette 

the    Light    of   'Truth    You   Shall  Know   the  False 


Vol.  I  CONTENTS  FOR  APRIL,  1916  No.  2 

Cover  Design Perham  W^.  .A/a  A/ 

Frontispiece — The  Road  to   Fame Anne  Brigman 

Gold  Medalist  P.  P.  I.  E. 

The  Short  Short  Story  Defined Arthur   T.   Vance  22 

A  Long-distance  Interview  with  Irvin  S.  Cohh 22 

The   Scarlet  Rose Herman  ^Whhaker  23 

\Vaste  Kennedy  Jackson  24 

(Awarded  prize  for  best  contribution  in  quarterly  competition.) 


The  Prodigal  Calf \  Agnes  Morley  Cleave! and  and  )        35 

(  Eiugene  JYlanlove  J\.noaes  » 

Easter  Morn E.  C.  T.  30 

The  Home-Coming — A  stripped  story 30 

Sunhonnet  Girl To  W.  A.  P.  31 

The  Other  Shoe  Frances  Foster  ^Williams  32 

Funnyeftes 36 

A  Suburban  Sunday.  Harriet  Holmes  Haslett— Just  So.  Amy  W  Hamlfn—Bud  Fun. 
Flortn*  Fohom-  An  Old  Love  Letter.  Kathryn  M.  Place— "In  the  Spring."  Martha 
NtwJand—An  Ear  to  the  Ground 

Shovelnose  Spins  a  Yarn Shirley  J^jansfield     38 

(Courtesy  of  Paul  Elder) 

The  Morrow  Cluh 41 

Editorial  Testimony Charles  K.  Field     41 

The  Literary  Market Torrey  Conner     42 

TORREY  CONNOR Editor 

6043  Harwood  Avenue,  Oakland,  Cal. 
AUGUSTA  FOWLER Associate  Editor 

All  rights  to  contents  of  this  magazine  reserved  by  Torrey  Connor,  Editor 
THE  SILHOUETTE  copyrighted  April  5,  1916 


M160Q55-  c 


; 


22  ''T^HE  StLrV6(jETTE 


THE     SHORT    SHORT     STORY    DEFINED. 

"I  am  much  interested  in  the  success  of  THE  SILHOUETTE  in  getting  really  short 
stories.  There  is  a  demand  for  it.  In  fact,  there  is  no  question  but  what  the  demand  is  greater 
than  the  supply.  By  this  I  do  not  mean  that  long  short  stories  are  not  good,  too.  We  never 
could  get  along  without  the  long  short  story.  But  the  short  short  story  has  its  value,  in  my 
mind,  as  sort  of  a  literary  appetizer  to  add  zest  and  interest  to  the  magazine  using  the  work 
of  writers  who  have  to  have  more  space  in  which  to  turn  around. 

"I  shall  be  particularly  interested  in  watching  your  magazine,  and  wish  you  all  success. 

"Sincerely  yours,  "ARTHUR  T.  VANCE." 


A   LONG-DISTANCE   INTERVIEW   WITH   IRVIN    S.   COBB. 

The  Silhouette,  in  California,  facetiously,  to  Irvin  S.  Cobb,  America's 
Foremost  Humorist: 

"Mr.  Cobb,  a  lot  of  people  out  here  on  the  edge  of  things  would  like  to 
express  their  approval  of  your  inimitable  "Siwash  College"  stories,  of  your 
"Bunker  Bean,"  of  "Eables  in  Slang."  "Grey's  Elegy,"  and  of  that  other 
masterpiece  of  yours,  "Huckleberry  Finn."  They  realize  that  the  odds  are 
against  their  achieving  the  honor  of  shaking  the  hand  that  wrote  "Laugh  and 
Grow  Thin" ;  but  if  you'll  tell  them  how  you  do  this  sort  of  thing,  year's 
end  on  year's  end,  and  get  away  with  it,  they'll  forego  the  hand-shake." 

Mr.  Cobb,  in  New  York,  exercising  the  inalienable  right  of  the  profes- 
sional humorist  to  be  serious: 

"I  have  no  recipe  for  writing  my  so-called  humor.  I  think  of  something, 
or  see  something,  or  hear  something  which  to  me  seems  susceptible  of  being 
treated  in  a  light-hearted,  or  at  any  rate,  a  good-natured  way ;  and  then  I  sit 
down,  pen  in  hand,  and  endeavor  to  do  so.  Sometimes,  I  hope,  I  succeed. 
Sometimes  I  know  I  fail." 

The  Silhouette,  in  California,  nudging  the  F.  H.  with  a  festive  elbotv: 
"When  did  your  downward  course  begin?" 

Mr.  Cobb,  in  Nezv  York — a  shade  remotely: 

"I  got  in  the  habit  a  good  many  years  ago,  and  have  never  been  cured." 

The  Silhouette,  in  California — bent  on  starting  something: 

"Are  you  funny  by  nature,  Mr.  Cobb,  or  how  do  you  go  about  it?" 

Mr.  Cobb,  in  New  York,  with  an  added  shade  of  reserve,  and  neatly  side- 
stepping the  attack: 

"I  write  alleged  humor  for  two  reasons : 
"(1)      Because  I  like  to. 
"(2)     Because  it  pays." 

After  having  proceeded  thus  far  in  the  interview  without  incriminating 
himself,  Mr.  Cobb  allows  himself  to  contradict  himself: 

"Personally,  I  prefer  writing  serious  stuff,  but  there  is  a  demand  for 
humorous  stuff — even  for  the  kind  of  humorous  stuff  I  can  write ;  and  since 
it  is  easier  for  me  to  write  than  serious  stuff,  I  write  a  good  deal  of  it  in  the 
course  of  a  year. 

"With  all  good  wishes  for  the  success  of  your  undertaking,  I  am, 

"Sincerely  yours,  "IRVIN   S.   COBB." 


THE  SILHOUETTE  23 

THE  SCARLET  ROSE. 
HERMAN  WHITAKER. 

The  author  of  "The  Planter,"  "The  Settler,"  "Cross  Trails,"  and  other  stories,  has 
written  for  THE  SILHOUETTE  a  tale  that  grips.  In  five  hundred  words  this  forceful  writer 
strips  illusion  from  licentiousness.  The  Scarlet  Rose  is  the  shortest  story  ever  published  by  a 
magazine. 

The  arc  light  in  the  street  revealed  a  scarlet  rose  in  the  window  of  an 
apartment  above  a  shoe  store.  Its  flame  was  reflected  in  the  sudden  flush  of 
the  man  who  gazed  up  at  it  from  the  opposite  sidewalk.  Observing,  his 
mouth  drew  into  a  grin.  The  mingled  conceit,  triumph  and  animalism  of 
his  expression  caused  a  young  girl,  who  had  given  him  a  casual  glance  in 
passing,  to  avert  her  eyes  as  if  with  instinctive  repulsion.  His  thought, 
flavored  with  that  illogical  mixture  of  amusement  and  contempt  that  the 
roue  feels  for  those  he  wrongs,  justified  her  shudder.  Twisting  his  mous- 
tache, he  crossed  the  street ;  after  a  complacent  glance  at  himself  in  the  shoe 
store  mirrors,  he  turned  in  at  the  next  doorway  and  ascended  the  stairs. 

The  door  would  be  unlocked ;  he  was  to  go  right  in. 

His  drumming  pulses  leaped  at  the  memory  of  the  low,  swift  endearment 
with  which  she  had  concluded  her  instructions  over  the  telephone.  Only  the 
thickness  of  the  door  now  separated  them.  A  mad,  pleasurable  confusion 
surged  through  his  mind. 

He  quietly  turned  the  knob.  A  single  electric  light  showed  the  little 
parlor  to  be  empty ;  but  the  bedroom  door  stood  wide  open,  and  touched  by 
the  draught,  the  rose  bowed  consent.  He  tiptoed  and  peeped  in. 

A  pair  of  small  red  slippers  stood  under  a  chair  that  held  a  tumbled  white 
heap.  She  had  retired.  Fallen  asleep  while  waiting!  The  curtains  of  the 
bed  hid  her  head ;  but  he  could  see  the  lines  of  the  pretty  figure  flowing  un- 
der the  coverlet's  whiteness.  He  stumbled,  crossing  the  floor,  and  stopped, 
smiling,  for  her  to  awaken.  And  there  did  come  a  stir  and  rustle.  His  grin 
stiffened  into  a  gape.  He  stood  breathlessly  staring  at  the  husband,  who  had 
risen  from  a  chair. 

Surprise  paralyzed  a  first  impulse  to  escape.  Then  he  noticed  that  the 
man's  face  showed  neither  anger  nor  surprise.  A  suspicion  flashed  into  his 
mind.  It  was  a  trap !  He  had  been  decoyed. 

Thought  stopped  as  the  husband  drew  back  the  sheet. 

Stupidly  he  gazed  down  at  the  waxen  mask,  wiped  clean  by  death  of  the 
smiling  coquetry,  flush  and  flow  of  color,  sparkling  illusions  of  lip  and  eye 
and  dimple  that  had  drawn  him  on  to  wrong  his  friend.  A  trace  of  that 
pleasurable,  mad  excitement  still  lingered  in  the  background  of  his  mind. 
But  now  it  froze.  He  quaked  with  guilty  horror.  Vanity,  conceit,  the  lusts 
and  passions  that  made  up  the  soul  of  him,  shrivelled,  leaving  it  shrunken 
as  a  withered  pea. 

His  glance  rose  in  apprehension  to  the  man's  face.  Rather  dull,  it  never- 
theless radiated  a  worth  that  had  gone  unappreciated  by  the  light  girl,  his 
wife.  Sudden  knowledge  of  this  stabbed  through  the  intruder's  baseness. 

"Her  heart  was  always  weak.  She  was  stricken  down  at  the  'phone — try- 
ing to  call  me,  no  doubt.  It  was  kind  of  you  to  come  in." 

Under  a  sudden  illumination,  the  lover  now  saw  the  astonishing  sequence 
that  had  brought  about  this  tragic  consummation — the  frail  heart,  disrupted 


24  THE   SILHOUETTE 

by  guilty  emotion  while  the  vibrations  of  her  voice  were  still  ringing  in  his 
ears ;  the  message  that  had  brought  the  husband  back  from  his  all-night 
work ;  the  latter's  assumption  that  he,  their  mutual  friend,  had  heard  and 
called  to  tender  sympathy.  Automatically,  he  took  the  cue.  Wagging  his 
head  as  one  stricken  too  heavily  for  words,  he  went  out — past  the  scarlet 
rose,  still  nodding  wantonly  in  the  window ;  down  the  stairs ;  into  the  street. 
As  he  paused  there  to  wipe  the  cold  sweat  from  his  brow,  he  became 
aware  of  a  face  watching  him  out  of  the  shoeman's  window.  For  a  moment 
he  did  not  recognize  it.  Then,  averting  his  eyes  from  its  revelation  as  the 
young  girl  had  done,  he  moved  off  down  the  street. 


WASTE.  * 
KENNEDY  JACKSON. 

The  silent  shifting  shades, 

The  endless  shuffling  feet, 
The  crunching  through  the  snow, 

The  struggling  'gainst  the  sleet — 
All  crowding  to  the  line 

\Vhere  God  and  they  will  meet; 
This  blood,  the  best  that  is 

In  man — Lord,  is  it  meet? 

In  slush  and  smoke  men  clash ; 

Unkempt,  with  clothes  awry, 
A  heaving,  choking  mass 

Beneath  a  spilling  sky 
Gives  battle  to  its  kin ; 

They  stumble,  gasp,  and  die ; 
None  leave  with  shout  or  song. 

O  Lord,  I  hear  you  sigh! 


"All  art  does  but  consist  in  the  removal  of  surplusage." 

Walter  Pater. 

"The  artist  may  be  known  rather  by  what  he  omits."  Schiller. 

"The  body  and  end  of  a  short  story  is  bone  of  the  bone  and  blood  of  the 
blood  of  the  beginning."  Stevenson. 


*  Awarded  prize  for  best  contribution  in  quarterly  competition. 


THE   SILHOUETTE  25 


THE   PRODIGAL    CALF. 

AGNES  MORLEY  CLEAVELAND 

and 
EUGENE  MANLOVE  RHODES. 

"Talkin'  'bout  this  here  poetical  m-justice,"  observed  Howison,  "I  onc't 
known  a  case  of  the  poeticalest  brand  that  ever  got  in  its  crafty  work." 

We  two,  waiting-  in  grateful  juniper  shade  till  our  relief  should  come  back 
from  dinner,  had  not  been  speaking  of  justice,  nor,  indeed,  of  any  subject 
whatsoever.  I  grunted.  Thus  encouraged,  Howison  went  on : 

"Hade  Henshaw  and  Corky  Baney  bein'  on  day  herd  together  stirs  up  a 
little  grin  inside  me,  as  it  always  does  when  I  see  them  two  fellers  workin' 
together,  plumb  amiable ;  and  while  we're  waitin'  I'll  tell  you  why. 

"When  Corky  first  hit  this  Datil  Country,  Hade  began  to  throw  it  into 
him,  hard  and  regular.  For  a  long  time  most  of  us  were  lookin'  for  some- 
thin'  to  break  loose.  When  Annie  Sellers  come  out  from  Missouri  to  visit 
her  sister  at  Quemado,  it  broke. 

"Corky  was  drivin'  stage  from  Datil  to  Quemado,  so  he  got  the  first  throw 
at  her.  But  he  hadn't  hauled  in  his  slack  before  Hade  comes  along  with  his 
loop  a-swingin'.  Corky  was  the  best  lookin',  and  Hade  the  slickest  talker. 

"None  of  us  expected  Hade  to  play  fair,  and  he  didn't.  He  seemed  to  be 
one  of  them  humans  that  couldn't  be  open  and  above  board  if  they  wanted 
to — and  then  don't  want  to.  No  fun  in  the  game  for  Hade,  'less  he  was 
playin'  with  a  stacked  deck  or  a  hold-out.  So  he  plays  this  here  little  love- 
game  by  givin'  Corky  continual  down-country  to  Annie. 

"Hade's  trump  card  was  alludin'  at  Corky  as  a  'granger,'  which  you 
know's  a  plumb  insult  to  a  cowman.  'Course  a  granger's  all  right  in  his 
place — but  that  place  sure  ain't  in  the  cow  countries.  Corky's  folks  was  from 
New  England,  and  Corky  couldn't  outlive  it.  Not  bein'  caught  and  put  at 
it  young  enough,  Corky  never  could  be  a  cowman  right — but  he  done  very 
well,  consiclerin'  his  handicap.  And  he  warn't  no  cow  thief.  That  industry 
ain't  good  form,  so  I  surmise,  in  New  England — leastwise,  not  'mongst  the 
front  fam'lies. 

"Now,  Hade,  he  'lowed  Corky  just  wasn't  cowman  enough  to  steal  a  cow 
and  git  off  with  it.  Hade  hisself  was  never  disparaged  none,  that  way.  He 
come  from  west  Texas,  where  cow-stealin'  was  more  respectable  than  takin' 
back  a  penny  in  change;  and  he  just  didn't  have  no  respect  for  Corky  any 
way  you  took  it. 

"First  place,  Corky  come  into  the  country  with  a  six-mule  freightin'  out- 
fit. This  he  traded  off  to  an  old  Mexican  for  twenty  cows  with  calves,  three 
two's  and  four  yearlin's — forty-seven  head  all  told.  Afterwards  Mr.  Mexican 
throwed  in,  to  boot,  that  seep  on  Deadman,  with  the  old  log  shack  and  corral. 
'Twas  sort-a  pathetic  to  see  how  plumb  satisfied  Corky  was  with  his  'ranch' 
and  his  little  old  milk-pen  bunch.  Of  course  they  couldn't  make  him  a 
livin',  and  because  they  couldn't,  all  the  cow  outfits  'round  kept  one  peeled 
and  hostile  eye  on  them  forty-seven  head.  Then  Corky  taken  the  stage 
drivin'  contract  to  aid  his  eatin' — the  government  bein'  the  only  employer 
that  didn't  object  to  his  havin'  cattle  of  his  own. 

"Hade  done  different;  he  come  into  the  country  with  just  a  horse  and 
saddle,  a  rope  and  a  hot  brandin'  iron,  which  he  holds  to  be  a  more  reason- 
able equipment  than  a  freightin'  outfit. 

"  'Twas  sure  more  suitable  for  goin'  into  the  cow  business  with.    Without 


26  THE   SILHOUETTE 

even  a  little  bunch  to  draw  to,  Hade  shows  up  in  no  time  with  'bout  a  hun- 
dred head — Mexican  strays,  burned,  and  sleepers,  dogies  and  mavericks. 
•From  that  on,  his  lowin'  kine  produced,  each  and  every  one,  a  calf  every 
wash  day.  We  kept  two  eyes  on  Hade — or  tried  to — but  the  way  of  that 
transgressor  was  sure  hard  to  find  out.  If  he  hadn't  been  born  under  a  cow- 
stealin'  star  he'd  'a'  been  sent  over  the  road  long  ago. 

"The  CY  cows  was  right  conservative,  confinin'  their  efforts  to  one  calf 
only  per  year  each.  Just  one  two-year-old  heifer  was  absent  at  roll-call  the 
first  year — lost,  strayed,  or  unavoidably  detained.  Three  calves  died  of 
blackleg,  and  one  muddied  the  water-supply  on  a  lobo-wolf,  or  otherwise 
gave  him  causus  belly. 

"Comin'  back  to  Hade :  Conviction  has  got  to  rest  on  evidence,  with  a 
big  E.  Dead  moral  certainty  won't  do  at  all.  We'd  find  calves  necked  to 
saplin's,  calfless  cows  bawlin'  'round — everythin'  but  just  Hade's  connection 
with  it.  Them  connections  never  was  proved  on  the  sagacious  and  painstakin' 
youth.  Curious,  ain't  it,  that  wrong-doin',  if  it's  only  done  good  enough,  will 
command  admiration — for  a  while? 

"There  was  some  in  the  country  that  wouldn't  believe  Corky  was  honest, 
either.  They  agreed  with  Hade  that  he  just  warn't  slick  enough  to  steal 
from  better  cowmen  than  hisself.  I  confess  I  warn't  convinced,  havin'  had 
dealin's  with  'little  men'  in  the  neighborhood  of  big  outfits  before,  and 
knowin'  just  how  temptin'  mavericks  and  big  long  ears  are.  But  I  meant  to 
find  out  first  chance  I  got.  I  was  the  T-Tumble-T  boss  then,  and  it  was  my 
business  to  know  all  that  was  goin'  on  in  T  H  territory. 

"When  it  come  round-up  time,  there  was  talk  of  barrin'  Hade  off  the 
wagon,  which  you  know  is  the  disgracefullest  thing  that  can  happen  to  a 
cowman.  But  we  knowed  he'd  be  usin'  his  compuls'ry  holiday  to  work  a  long 
lead  with  Annie  Sellers,  while  Corky  was  off  on  the  work.  (Corky,  he'd 
hired  a  Mexican  to  drive  stage  for  him  while  the  round-up  was  there,  so's 
he  could  do  his  part  of  the  cow  work,  like  every  owner  is  expected  to  do). 
So  as  everybody  wanted  to  see  a  fair  fight  in  the  Annie  Sellers  racket,  we  let 
Hade  work  with  us  so's  not  give  him  any  edge  over  Corky. 

"A  few  days  before  the  round-up  was  to  meet,  Corky  made  his  last  stage 
trip  to  Quemado.  Hade  was  present,  tambicn.  Hade  made  some  crack  'bout 
Corky  bein'  a  'progressive  cattle  man  whose  herd  ofe-creased  at  the  rate  of 
four  a  year.'  And  after  supper  Corky  marched  Annie  off  towards  the  corral 
and  told  her  to  say  him  or  Hade,  one,  and  say  it  quick. 

"Goodness  only  does  know  what  women  do  say  in  cases  like  this.  How 
she  done  it  I  dunno,  but  what  Miss  Annie  said  wasn't  neither  exact  nor  quick, 
as  per  specifications.  Yet  Corky  comes  back  in  a  good  humor,  and  Hade 
stays  with  the  game  just  the  same. 

"But  it  didn't  last.  Hade  wouldn't  let  it.  Corky  got  tired  of  bein'  t'other 
dear  charmer ;  and  two  days  before  the  round-up  was  to  meet  he  rode  over 
to  Quemado  again,  and  calls  time.  Annie  wouldn't  either  play  or  pay;  just 
gave  up,  loose-head,  'bout  bein'  a  sister  or  other  female  relative,  and  'bein' 
unprepared  to  make  a  decision' — all  that  sort  of  rot  women  seem  to  just  have 
to  say  instead  of  'yes'  or  'no'  or  'go  to.'  Corky  came  back  on  a  high  jump, 
all  shot  to  pieces,  primed  for  a  spree  to  drown  his  sorrow  in.  But  it  was  too 
far  to  whiskey  for  a  man  who  didn't  care  for  it  anyway ;  so  instead,  he  took 
a  long  hard  ride  in  the  mountains  without  any  dinner.  'Twas  either  that,  or 
go  out  in  the  gardin  and  eat  a  worm. 

"I  met  him  just  where  the  trail  comes  out  of  his  canon,  and  saw  right 
off  that  he  had  hay  on  his  horns.  But  I  just  asked  him  if  he'd  seen  any  thin' 


THE  SILHOUETTE  27 

of  some  broncs  I'd  lost.  He  told  me  'bout  tracks  at  the  south  end  of  Sugar 
Loaf;  and  I  went  on.  But  before  I  cut  the  sign  he  meant  I  run  onto  the 
trail  I  was  lookin'  for,  leadin'  plumb  in  the  opposite  direction.  And  that's 
how  I  come  to  know  some  things. 

"Well,  I  saw  him  jump  a  bunch  of  cattle  which  I  had  seen  on  my  way 
over.  It  was  a  snaky  bunch,  with  a  sleeper  in  it  as  big  as  a  bay  pony. 
I  'lowed  it  was  some  of  Hade's  funny  business,  and  I  wanted  it  to  show  up 
on  the  work,  hopin'  it  might  prove  to  be  the  missin'  link  between  Hade  and 
the  evidence  we  was  all  lookin'  for.  There  was  several  cows  in  the  bunch, 
but  they  broke  for  the  brush  before  I  got  a  square  look  at  'em  all.  Still, 
since  the  sleeper  was  in  the  T  H  earmark,  it  was  pretty  certain  to  belong  to 
a  T  H  cow. 

"You  can't  always  say  just  how  another  human's  head-piece  works;  but 
I  bet  I  made  a  mighty  straight  guess,  when  I  size  up  that  Corky  was  sayin' 
to  hisself  like  this : 

"  'Ha !  There's  a  big  calf  'bout  to  quit  its  mammy.  Hade  Henshaw,  he's 
seen  it,  and  put  it's  mammy's  earmark  on  it,  so  any  T  H  man,  observin'  of 
them  ears,  will  s'pose  the  critter's  branded  like  it  ought-a  be,  and  won't  look 
close.  When  its  left  its  maw's  shelterin'  wing,  Hade  comes  along,  unostenta- 
tious, changes  the  earmark  and  puts  his  brand  on — Does  he?  Well,  right 
here  is  where  Corky  Baney  shows  somebody  he  ain't  the  granger  he  looks.' 
"Well, -Corky  lights  out  behind  that  bunch,  his  rope  a-swingin'  and  desprit 
resolve  writ  all  over  his  features.  Usually  Corky  throws  big'  sloppy  mother- 
hubbards ;  but  bein'  in  the  humor  he  was,  makes  people  do  things  they  can't. 
His  loop  was  the  prettiest,  neatest  little  ketch'm  you  ever  saw,  right  'round 
both  front  feet.  I  was  sittin'  on  a  pinnacle  watchin'  (which  was  stric'ly  my 
business  to  be  doin',  this  bein'  T  H  range).  When  Corky  turned  the  yearlin' 
loose  it  had  on  Corky 's  brand,  CY,  big  and  attractive,  just  a-yellin'  to  be 
seen.  I  taken  the  trail  right  behind  it  and  followed  'till  it  got  back  into  its 
own  bunch.  I  watched  a  while,  and  then  come  away  sort-a  speculatin'. 
Some  things  warn't  plumb  clear,  but  I  decided  that  Corky  was  a  better  cow- 
man than  we'd  been  givin'  him  credit  for.  It  had  took  pretty  quick  brand 
readin'  to  tell  which  cow  that  sleeper  belonged  to — that  bunch  movin'  out 
as  it  was. 

"But  I  wanted  somebody  to  show  a  hand  anyhow,  and  maybe  the  rest 
of  the  cards  would  come  down ;  so  I  went  back  and  stayed  with  Corky  that 
night.  Never  did  see  him  in  such  a  mood  before.  He  was  sure  runnin'  off 
at  the  head.  Stated  positive  'twas  all  tommyrot  'bout  honesty  bein'  the  best 
policy,  for  it  wasn't — not  by  a  blame  sight,  not  in  the  cow  business,  anyhow. 
He'd  been  called  a  granger  as  long  as  he  meant  to  stand  for  it,  and  he  was 
goin'  to  show  this  country  a  few  things,  and  raise  merry  carajo  generally. 
Sort-a  'Woof  !  I'm  a  wolf !'  frame  of  mind. 

"Next  day  I  was  goin'  to  make  a  round  of  the  water  holes  and  see  if  we 
could  hold  a  herd  at  all  of  them.  I  tried  to  get  Corky  to  go  with  me,  but 
though  I  put  up  a  strong  talk,  he  wouldn't  go.  He  was  so  plumb  sot  not  to 
that  I  decided  he  had  some  pressin'  reason,  'specially  as  he  seemed  anxious 
to  find  out  just  where  I  meant  to  be  ridin'.  I  told  him  some  misleadin'  facts, 
and  then  went  on  with  my  detective  work.  I  managed  to  be  perched  on 
another  hill  when  he  jumped  that  same  bunch  of  cattle,  after  he  had  trailed 
'em  'round  'most  half  a  day. 

"His  earnest  and  conscientious  efforts  before  was  cool  and  collected  com- 
pared to  the  way  he  went  brush-ridin'  now.  I  could  tell  by  the  look  of  him 
that  it  was  a  sort  of  life-and-death  matter  to  him.  He  looked  white  and 


28  THE  SILHOUETTE 

nerved  tip  to  srmethin'  desprit.  From  what  I'd  told  him  that  mornin'  he 
supposed  I  was  just  over  the  ridge — 'bout  the  Blue  Spring- — and  I  could 
tell  that  he  was  plumb  anxious  to  keep  that  bunch  turned  the  opposite  direc- 
tion;  while  they,  just  like  perverse  cow-brutes,  was  bound  that  that  was  the 
only  way  they  was  g~oin'.  I  could  almost  hear  Corky  grit  his  teeth  when  he 
turned  'em  back  right  on  the  top  of  the  ridge  and  hurled  his  twine  just  as 
they  took  off  down  the  side.  Since  he  just  had  to  catch  that  yearlin',  he  did ; 
and  had  it  hog-tied  in  just  about  record  time. 

"The  next  proceeclin's  had  me  guessin'.  This  is  precisely  what  Corky 
done.  He  carved  on  them  long-sufferin'  ears  some  more.  Then  he  clumb  a 
pinon  tree.  By  gosh,  he  did !  When  he  come  down  he  had  a  double  handful 
of  pinon  wax,  which  he  deposits  on  a  flat  rock  and  builds  a  fire  close  up  to  it. 
He  sticks  his  brandin'  iron  in  the  fire,  and  then  fans  with  his  hat  'till  he  was 
plumb  red  in  the  face  and  give  out.  When  that  there  wax  is  melted  nice  and 
soft,  he  takes  a  couple  of  sticks  and  smears  it  over  the  CY  he  had  put  on 
yesterday.  Then  he  takes  dirt  and  pinon  needles  and  rubs  in  the  wax.  After 
all  this  amazin'  business,  he  goes  to  work  and  draws  a  nice  T  H  alongside  the 
smudge  of  wax.  Then  he  turns  the  yearlin'  loose.  And  gosh !  He  looked 
ten  years  younger,  the  minute  he  done  it. 

"Then  I  come  down  off'n  my  pinnacle  in  a  round'bout  way  and  met  him, 
just  accidental-like,  'bout  where  I  told  him  I  would  be.  Information  was 
what  I  was  after,  so  I  opened  up: 

"  'Say,  Corky,  did  you  see  a  bunch  of  cattle  back  there,  with  a  big  brockle- 
faced  sleeper  in  it?' 

"He  looks  wild-eyed  for  a  minute ;  and  then  he  calms  down  and  says, 
quite  cool : 

"  'I  did  so.    And  I  branded  the  yearlin'  for  you.' 

"  'Good  of  you  to  take  the  trouble,'  I  says,  as  natural-like  as  I  could. 
This  was  the  beatin'est  thing  I  was  ever  up  against.  'Why  didn't  you  leave 
it  'till  tomorrow?  We'd-a  got  it  in  the  round-up?'  I  asks,  still  hopin'  for 
light. 

"He  wriggled  a  little  in  his  saddle,  but  answered  plausible  enough : 

"  'You  know,  grangers  like  me  needs  all  the  practice  ropin'  they  can  git. 
And  I  sure  did  turn  a  pretty  one.'  I  'most  said :  'You  bet  you  did !'  but  I 
stopped  myself  in  time. 

"It  was  the  third  day  of  the  round-up  that  we  worked  that  same  country. 
I  was  runnin'  the  wagon,  and  I  sent  Corky  out  toward  the  edge  of  the  plains. 
He  was  the  last  man  back  to  dinner. 

"When  he  got  off  his  horse  and  sized  up  the  outfit,  he  sure  looked 
buffaloed.  Nary  a  man  cast  even  one  glance  toward  him.  They  all  looked 
as  if  their  friends  and  families  had  just  dropped  dead — saddest  set  of  punch- 
ers ever  you  laid  eyes  on.  Corky  caught  right  on  that  it  was  aimed  at  him, 
and  he  spits  out : 

"  'If  you  windbroke,  locoed  bunch  of  yaps  got  anythin'  to  say,  why  in 
blink-blazes  don't  you  say  it,  'stead  of  sittin'  there  like  a  tub  full  of  -ripe 
tomatoes  ?' 

"  'Bad  business,  Corky,  bad  business !'  I  says,  sad-like,  when  I  could  speak 
without  chokin'.  'I  sure  hates  to  see  a  good  man  gone  wrong.' 

"And  then  somebody  else  pipes  up : 

"  'Reckon  Hade  Henshaw  has  been  gittin'  credit  for  some  things  he  never 

done.' 

"Corky  was  turnin'  kinder  white  'round  the  gills,  and  I  felt  sorry  for 
him — but  not  sorry  enough  to  keep  me  from  continuin' : 


THE   SILHOUETTE  29 

''  'Cow-stealin'  is  sure  reprehensible  in  one  so  young',  but  mebbe  we  c'n 
find  some  exculpritory  circumstances.' 

"The  horse-wrangler  here  give  a  chokin'  sort  o'  snort,  and  Corky  started 
for  him  with  full  intentions  of  whippin'  him,  and  doin'  it  pretty  sudden,  if 
somethin'  didn't  happen  to  prevent. 

Rut  somethin'  happened.  Somethin'  had  to.  With  a  rush,  the  whole 
rutfit  broke  for  the  corral  where  we  had  penned  that  day's  drive.  The  horse- 
AY  rangier  crawled  up  on  the  top  rail  and  threw  a  stick  in  the  middle  of  the 
cattle  to  stir  'cm  up.  Suddenly  we  heard  Corky  make  a  little  gurglin'  noise 
in  his  throat,  and  we  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer.  We  all  reared  up  and  fell 
rver  backwards,  yellin'  like  a  pack  of  coyotes.  Corky  just  stood  there 
sjawkin'  at  a  red  brockle-faced  cow.  By  her  side,  with  all  the  same  flesh 
marks,  was  that  there  yearlin',  sportin'  a  big  splotch  of  pinon  wax  and  a  TH 
alrngside.  The  cow  was  branded  CY.  It  was  Corky's  missin'  two-year-old 
beifer  come  IKMIIC  after  a  year's  gaddin',  and  Corky  hadn't  recognized  her. 
Nor  Hade  neither ! 

'Now  laugh,  you  fools,  and  make  everybody  hate  you!'  says  Corky. 

We  done  so.  Corky's  face  would  'a'  made  a  turkey-buzzard  laugh.  But 
if  the  turkey-buzzard  knowed  what  I  did,  just  what  was  under  that  pinon 
wax,  his  mirth  would  'a'  been  fatal.  The  rest  of  the  boys  was  squallin' 
because  it  was  funny  for  a  man  to  steal  a  calf  from  hisself  for  a  big  outfit 
like  the  TH.  But  that  wasn't  a  patch  on  stealin'  a  calf  from  hisself,  for 
hisself;  and  then  takin'  down  with  a  hard  attack  of  conscience,  and  smudgin' 
out  the  brand  with  pinon  wax,  hopin'  'twould  last  till  the  round-up  left 
and  then  he  could  beef  it.  If  he'd  tried  to  kill  it  while  the  work  was  in  the 
country,  we'd  'a'  run  onto  his  tracks  sure. 

"Hade,  he  just  stood  there  with  a  silly  grin  on  his  pained  features.  When 
anybody  got  so  anybody  could  talk  or  hear  what  the  other  fellow  said,  Corky 
speaks  up  in  a  nervous  sort  o'  way : 

"  'Mr.  Howison,'  says  he  to  me,  'suppose  we  stake  this  outfit  to  a  beef?' 

"  'And  the  hide?'  says  I. 

"  'That,'  says  he,  'I  reckon  you  and  me  better  eat  first.' 

"  'How  'bout  lettin'  Hade  have  a  taste  ?'  I  suggests,  innocent  as  a  iamb. 

Hade  and  Corky  both  directs  oncertain  glances  my  way.  But  what  they 
d<  n't  know  and  I  do  won't  hurt  'em.  This  was  one  of  the  occasions  when 
any  thin'  said  was  too  much,  so  I  kept  my  head  shut. 

"Wherefore,  when  the  springtime  come,  gentle  Annie  she  up  and  married 
Corky,  and  lives  happy  ever  after.  Although  a  female,  she's  contrary. 
'Cause  Corky  was  bein'  guyed  to  a  standstill,  she  gets  sore  'bout  it.  Says  it 
was  a  straight  case  of  ingrowin'  honesty,  and  she  never  had  no  use  for  cow 
thieves  nohow.  Time  seems  to  be  provin'  her  right.  Corky's  sin  of  cow- 
stealin'  was  plumb  blotted  out  with  one  smudge  of  wax.  But  nobody  but 
just  me  and  the  Recordin'  Angel  knows  what  that  smudge  spelt  in  Corky's 
account  on  the  judgment  books.  And  it's  queer,  but  it  sort-a  blotted  out 
some  things  for  Hade,  too.  Corky  has  seemed  to  feel  kinder  toward  him 
since  that  little  circumstance ;  and  even  though  Annie  did  throw  him  down, 
Hade  is  real  friendly  with  'em  both  now.  Corky's  cows  seem  to  be  gettin' 
back  to  the  good  old  time-honored  custom  of  one  calf  per  year  each.  Things 
sometimes  works  out  queer  in  this  old  world. 

.  .  .  "Well,  here  they  come.  We  don't  look  like  we'd  been  talkin'  'bout 
'em,  do  we?" 

This   un-typical   Western    story,    written   with   the   intimate   knowledge    of   writers   who    know 
the  West,   is  told  in  3000  words. 


30  THE  SILHOUETTE 

EASTER    MORN. 
E.   C.  T. 

Sing  to  the  Sun,  far-floating-  bird ! 
Be  light  of  foot,  O  clay  of  mine ! 

Be  glad  with  song,  O  soul  of  me ! 
Be  beautiful  with  Love,  and  see 
How  Earth  and  all  of  Heaven  are  thine. 

THE   HOME-COMING. 

["The  Home-Coming"  is  an  experiment — a  "stripped"  story.  Written  originally  in  three 
thousand  words,  it  was  stripped  to  two  thousand  words.  Having  lost  none  of  the  story  in  the 
process,  the  stripping  was  repeated;  with  the  result  that  the  uselessness  of  wrapping  our  themes 
in  endless  swathings  of  words  is  fully  demonstrated.] 

Nurse  Mary  industriously  plied  the  paring  knife.  The  sunshine  crept  in 
where  she  sat  on  the  low  step,  and  wrought  arabesques  of  light  and  shade 
on  the  floor,  worn  to  snowy  smoothness  by  daily  scrubbings.  The  old  woman 
lifted  her  head,  and  for  a  long  moment  drank  in  the  beauty  of  the  day. 

The  gate  clanged. 

"It's  you!"  Mary  exclaimed,  rising.  ''Mr.  Benjie,  how  are  you?  I  hope 
you're  well." 

"The  old  man  has  grown  older,  Mary." 

"A  little  older,  mebbe.  I  don't  think  you'll  find  any  changes  in  Californy, 
though,  Mr.  Benjie.  It's  jes'  the  same  Garden  of  Eden  that  'twas  when  God 
made  it." 

They  sat  down  in  the  sunshine. 

"I'm  glad  to  get  home.  I  went  away  to  forget.  But  how  could  I  forget? 
You  know  tomorrow  is  Easter,  Nurse?" 

Mary  nodded ;  her  eyes  filled. 

"You  haven't  forgotten  the  day — nor  Raymond  ?" 

Her  wrinkled  hand  wiped  away  a  tear. 

"It  was  the  dream  of  Raymond's  life  to  go  abroad,  to  study  art.  He  and 
I  and — Bessie,  we  were  to  go  together.  .  .  Then  the  man  came." 

"You  can't  blame  her,   Mr.   Benjie.     She  was  young  and  thoughtless. 
She  didn't  know — how  could  Bessie  know  ? — that  Raymond  loved  her  ?" 
The  man's  eyes  were  wells  of  anguish. 

"When  I  reached  him,  after  he  fired  the  shot  that  ended  his  life,  Bessie 
was  bending  over  him,  kissing  him  and  crying.  ...  I  found  her  picture  in 
his  dead  hand,  Nurse  Mary.  He  spoke  her  name  before  he  died." 

"Of  course  she  kissed  him,  Mr.  Benjie,  dear!  Hadn't  they  been  brought 
up  together  like  brother  and  sister?  Many's  the  time  I've  said  it:  'Mr. 
Wright,  he's  father  and  mother  to  the  boy  that's  his'n,  and  the  girl  that 
ain't,'  says  I." 

"I  have  been  cheated  of  happiness,  Mary.  If  I  had  a  child — one  of  his 
arid  hers — to  hold  on  my  knee !  I  did  everything  for  the  fatherless  girl  that 


THE  SILHOUETTE  31 

her  own  father,  who  was  my  friend,  could  have  done.  .  .  .  Yet  she  left  us 
to  marry  a  man  she  had  known  barely  a  month !" 

"You'd  forget — and  forgive — if  you  had  a  child  in  your  arms,  Benjie 
Wright.  You  get  to  lovin'  the  little  things — you  can't  help  it ;  and  after  you 
once  begin'  lovin'  grows  to  be  a  habit.  Somehow,  they  do  soften  a  body's 
heart." 

A  butterfly  fluttered  above  the  flower  beds. 

"  'Minds  me  of  her,"  Mary  murmured,  touching  his  arm. 

"Don't !"  he  cried.  His  tone  was  harsh.  "She  has  gone  her  own  way. 
Let  her,  and  all  of  her  blood,  see  to  it  that  they  never  cross  my  path  !" 

"Do  you  feel  that  hard  to  her?  To  Bessie f  May  the  Angel  roll  the  stone 
away  from  the  door  of  your  heart  this  Easter  time,  Benjie  Wright !  Speakin' 
of  children,"  she  pursued,  after  a  silence,  "there's  a  clarlin'  baby  livin'  yonder 
that  comes  to  see  me  'most  every  day.  Look,  Mr.  Benjie!  You  can  see  the 
house  'mongst  the  trees. 

"It's  the  house  the  man,  the  woman  and  the  baby  built.  Watchin'  it  grow 
was  like  watchin'  the  buildin'  of  a  nest.  'Twa'n't  big  enough  to  hold  the 
love  that  was  in  it. 

"The  baby,  she's  in  and  out  of  my  house  like  a  friendly  ray  of  sunshine. 
First,  she  was  'daddy's  baby.'  Now,  she  says :  Ts  Aunt  Mary's  baby.' 
There's  the  path  her  little  sandals  has  made. 

"I  am  glad  someone  keeps  you  from  being  lonely,  Nurse."  He  got  stiffly 
to  his  feet.  "I  must  go  back  to  my  empty  house." 

"But  the  story — let  me  finish  it;  there's  not  much  more  to  tell,"  she 
quavered.  "He  died ;  the  baby's  father  died,  and — The  baby,  she's  comin' 
up  the  path,  Mr.  Benjie.  Wait!  Don't  turn  'round — not  yet.  He  died,  Mr. 
Benjie;  and  Bessie,  her  that  you  cared  for  like  a  queen,  has  had  sorrow  piled 
on  sorrow — sickness — want — The  Lord  be  praised!  Careful,  Mr.  Benjie! 
Don't  frighten  the  little  lamb —  gran' daddy's  baby!" 


SUNBONNET   GIRL. 
To    W.    A.    P. 

Spring,  and  the  robin's  trill 
Echoed  from  hill  to  hill. 
Clover  fields  white  and  red 
(June  on  the  bough  o'erhead), 
Lilies  in  fragrant  ranks 
Thronging  the  river  banks, 
Blue  haze,  and  Autumn  fire 
Lighted  on  bush  and  briar, 
Twilight,  the  lambkin  stars 
Flocking  thro'  sunset  bars — 
'Mind  me,  somehow,  of  you 
Sunbonnet  Girl  I  knew. 


32  THE  SILHOUETTE 

THE   OTHER    SHOE. 
FRANCES  FOSTER  WILLIAMS 

The  girl  turned  in  at  the  dcor  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  fitted  a  key  to 
the  lock,  and  stepped  inside  ;  moving"  wearily  through  the  darkness  to  the 
center  of  the  small  room,  she  stood  with  closed  eyes. 

Bounded  on  the  north  by  her  bed,  bounded  on  the  east  by  a  pine  bureau 
which  stood  in  front  of  a  door  to  the  adjoining-  room,  bounded  on  the  south 
by  the  door  through  which  one  left  for  work  at  7  :45  each  morning,  bounded 
on  the  west  by  a  small,  square  window — the  girl  knew  it  all  by  heart. 

Finding  the  curtained  corner  closet  in  the  dark,  she  fumbled  with  tired 
fingers  at  the  fastenings  of  her  shirt-waist  and  skirt,  slipping  out  of  them 
into  a  large,  loose  bathrobe.  Then,  stumbling  over  the  rocking-chair  in  her 
haste,  she  flung  open  the  window  and  dropped  to  her  knees  on  the  floor, 
resting  her  head  against  the  sill.  The  fog  drifted  in — so  thick  that  she  tasted 
it. 

Through  the  thin  partition  on  the  east  side  of  her  room  came  certain 
sounds ;  a  line  of  light  cleaving  the  darkness  disclosed  the  crack  in  the  tran- 
som above  her  bureau.  She  thought  it  must  be  seven  o'clock,  and  wondered 
why  she  had  not  heard  the  closing  of  her  neighbor's  door.  One  could  tell 
that  the  neighbor  was  a  man  by  the  cheerful  banging.  He  was  evidently 
getting  dinner. 

For  the  six  lonely  weeks  she  had  lived  there  the  presence  of  the  man  next 
door  had  been  distinctly  comforting.  Only  twice  had  she  seen  him  in  the 
hall ;  and  then  merely  a  glimpse  of  a  broad,  gray-suited  back ;  but  for  six 
weeks  the  sounds  from  the  other  side  of  the  partition  had  regulated  her  life 
to  as  great  an  extent  as  her  own  alarm  clock.  The  clock  next  door  went  off 
at  (i  :30  each  morning,  and  the  girl,  hearing  it  through  a  tangle  of  dreams, 
knew  that  she  could  drowse  again  for  another  precious  fifteen  minutes.  She 
welcomed  the  slam  of  his  door,  fifteen  minutes  after  hers  each  night ;  and 
had  learned  that  the  strop-strop  of  his  razor  came  every  other  morning. 

For  six  weeks  she  had  listened  to  the  thump  of  one  shoe,  then  the  other, 
as  they  were  dropped  to  the  floor ;  the  creak  of  his  wall-bed  at  10  :30  each 
night.  The  creak  informed  her  that  he  paid  three-fifty  for  his  room.  Wall 
bed  apartments  cost  one  dollar  more  per  week. 

Somewhere  in  the  house  a  clock  struck  eight.  The  man  next  door  must 
be  through  dinner,  and  the  dishes  washed.  She  lay  still,  her  head  pillowed 
on  her  arm,  and  gazed  unseeingly  out  through  the  darkness.  The  room  was 
drenched  with  the  clean,  sweet  fog;  it  had  washed  away  some  of  her  unrest. 

Nine  o'clock !  She  shivered,  and  drew  the  bathrobe  closer.  Suddenly 
remembering  that  she  had  had  no  dinner,  she  closed  the  window,  and  lit  the 
sing-le  gas-jet.  She  put  what  was  left  of  the  morning'  coffee  on  the  two- 
burner  gas  plate. 

The  man  next  door  was  preparing  for  bed.  She  heard  one  shoe  thump 
to  the  floor,  his  cheerfully  discordant  whistle.  Presently  the  other  shoe 
would  drop,  and  she  would  hear  the  squeak  of  the  wall-bed. 

Suddenly  the  girl  realized  that  the  second  thump  had  not  come.  She 
listened  for  the  other  shoe.  It  did  not  drop,  and  there  was  not  so  much  as  a 
rustle  from  the  other  side  of  the  partition.  The  whistling  had  stopped  as 
though  cut  in  two.  Could  anything  be  the  matter  ?  The  interval  of  listening- 
seemed  filled  with  little,  nerve-racking  sounds. 


THE  SILHOUETTE  33 

"He  alzt'ays  takes  off  both  shoes !" 

The  girl  jumped  at  the  sound  of  her  own  frightened  whisper. 

"Something's  happened — something's  happened !"  ticked  the  alarm-clock, 
and  the  blood,  beating  against  her  ear-drums,  pounded  : 

''Something's  happened !" 

She  turned  off  the  gas  under  the  coffee-pot,  her  ear  toward  the  door  back 
of  her  bureau.  Was  he  ill?  Had  anyone — ?  Her  face  whitened  at  the 
unfinished  thought.  She  must  know !  She  took  a  quick  step  in  the  direction 
of  the  hall  door,  hesitated,  one  hand  on  the  knob.  Her  eyes  traveled  to  the 
transom  above  her  bureau. 

Quickly,  noiselessly,  she  pulled  open  the  bureau  drawers,  and  mounted 
the  improvised  stairs  to  the  top.  Stretching  to  its  utmost  her  height  of  five 
feet  three  inches,  she  pulled  at  the  burlap  tacked  across  the  glass.  The  rotted 
cloth  tore  away  from  the  tacks,  but  the  transom  was  boarded  up  on  the 
ether  side.  Stifling  a  little  cry  of  disappointment,  she  pressed  her  ear  close 
to  the  glass ;  she  heard  nothing. 

But  was  there  something ? 

The  girl's  heart  stopped  beating  at  the  faint  moaning  sound  from  the 
other  side  of  the  door,  and  started  again  with  a  shock  of  exquisite  physical 
pain.  Jumping  tip-toed  from  the  top  of  her  bureau  to  the  floor,  she  kicked 
off  her  pumps.  If  she  had  a  big  knife !  Her  glance  searched  the  room. 
The  curtain  rod ! 

She  climbed  onto  a  chair ;  lifting  the  rod,  bedraggled  burlap  curtain  and 
all,  from  its  brackets,  she  stripped  the  brass  rings — with  never  the  faintest 
clink — from  her  weapon.  A  moment,  and  she  was  in  the  dimly  lighted  hall. 
She  saw  no  one,  but  she  still  heard  that  awful  sound.  .  .  .  The  knob  turned 
under  her  trembling  fingers. 

The  young  man  in  the  Morris  chair  sat  up  with  the  automatic  jerk  of  a 
jack-in-the-box,  and  regarded  his  visitor,  a  fuddled  look  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"I — I  beg  your — your  pardon  !" 

"Oh,  certainly !"  he  murmured,  rising. 

"You  were — groaning,"  the  girl  faltered,  breathlessly,  backing  toward 
the  door,  "and  you  only  took  off  one  shoe,  and — 

"So  I  did!"  he  agreed.  As  he  raised  his  foot  she  noticed  a  small  hole  in 
the  toe  of  his  gray  sock.  "Just  suppose  you  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about 
it — quietly — with  your  poker  over  there  on  that  table." 

She  turned  toward  him,  appeal  in  her  brown  eyes,  blood  flooding  up  from 
the  collar  of  her  bath-robe  across  her  white  face  to  the  line  of  her  red-gold 
hair. 

"Now,  don't  be  alarmed,  please !"  She  read  amusement  in  his  eyes.  "I 
won't  bite,  you  know !"  On  his  feet,  looking  down  from  his  superior  height, 
he  seemed  master  of  the  situation. 

"It's — it's  a  curtain  rod !" 

As  if  hypnotized,  she  placed  the  rod  on  the  table  indicated,  and  sat  stiffly 
on  the  edge  of  the  rocking  chair  he  had  drawn  opposite  his  own. 

"Now?"  he  prompted,  gently. 

"Why — why — you  only  took  off  one  shoe — ' 

As  if  reminded  of  the  hole  in  his  stocking,  the  young  man  pulled  on  the 
other  tan  shoe,  which  lay  on  the  floor. 

"You  took  off  both,  I  see!"  he  observed. 

She  curled  her  small  feet  back  into  the  folds  of  her  bath-robe. 

"And  so  I  thought  you  were  ill — or  killed — or  something !" 

He  interrupted  her,  a  hand  rubbing  a  bewildered  forehead. 


34  THE  SILHOUETTE 

"Now,  just  a  moment — let  me  get  this!  I  take  off  one  shoe,  and  fall 
asleep,  so  you  think  I  am  killed — or  something"!"  Then:  "How  did  you 
know  I  only  took  off  one  shoe?"  he  catechised. 

The  girl's  face  flamed. 

"I  was  not  looking  through  the  transom — " 

"No,  it's  boarded  up,"  he  interpolated. 

— and  I  am  not  crazy!"  she  assured  him.  Then,  in  a  desperate  rush  of 
words :  "The  walls  are  thin,  and  I  am  lonely.  I  can  hear  everything — your 
alarm-clock,  and  wall-bed — it  squeaks,  you  know — and  your  awful 
whistling — " 

The  young  man  grinned. 

— and  I've  heard  you  bang  both  shoes  down  every  night  for  six  weeks ; 
and  tonight  there  was  only  one  bang ;  and  you  groaned !" 

"Snored,"  he  corrected,  in  a  solemn  voice. 

"S-s-snored !" 

The  girl  covered  her  face  with  both  hands. 

"Now,  don't  cry,  please!"  he  urged,  very  gently,  dropping  his  eyes  before 
the  sight  of  a  round,  tired  tear  squeezing  out  between  the  girl's  slender 
fingers.  "I'm  awfully  sorry  I  frightened  you — and  I'll  always  take  off  both 
shoes  after  this. 

She  uncovered  a  flushed  face. 

"You're  making  fun  of  me — and  I  hate  it !" 

"No,  indeed  I'm  not !  It  was  very  neighborly  of  you.  I  never  could  tell, 
from  the  sounds,  what  kind  of  a  girl  lived  next  door." 

"Did  you  try?"  she  asked,  with  interest. 

"I  was  late  for  work  three  successive  mornings,  hoping  to  get  a  look  at 
you,"  he  confessed,  with  a  boyish  grin. 

The  girl  sat  up,  blinking. 

"Were  you  lonely?" 

"M — hm —  as  the  deuce !" 

"Isn't  it  awful — being  lonely?" 

"Something  fierce!"  he  admitted.  "But  we  needn't  be,  any  more,  now 
that  we're  introduced." 

She  glanced  toward  the  door. 

"I'll — I  must  be  going  now ;  I  haven't  had  my  dinner." 

The  tall  young  man  whistled  with  amazement. 

"I  was  tired — awfully  tired — when  I  came  home,  and  didn't  want  any ; 
and  then,  just  as  I  was  cooking  it,  you — you — 

"I    forgot   to   take   off   my   other   shoe,"     he    finished,    rising    briskly. 
"Now" — from  behind  a  screen — "we  will  have  a  party.     Some  tamales"- 
there  was  the  sharp  rip  of  a  can-opener — "and  some  coffee,  and  some  French 
bread.     I  hope  you  won't  object  to  my  drinking  it  out  of  my  shaving-mug?" 
he  queried,  peering  over  the  screen. 

The  girl  giggled. 

She  heard  him  moving  busily  around  in  preparation  for  the  "party." 
She  rocked,  and  smiled  at  her  own  reflection  in  the  long  pier-glass  which 
undoubtedly  hid  the  wall-bed.  His  room  had  a  real  closet  with  a  door,  in- 
stead of  a  burlap  curtain. 

"All  ready!" 

He  drew  up  a  card  table  between  the  two  chairs,  and  brought  a  steam- 
ing, savory  tray  from  behind  the  screen.  He  brought,  also,  two  cushions 
from  the  lounge,  and  tucked  one  behind  her  back  and  one  underneath  her 
stockinged  feet. 


THE  SILHOUETTE  35 

"You  mustn't  wait  on  me  like  this !"  she  protested. 

He  smiled  up  at  her. 

"You  like  it !"  he  teased. 

The  girl  leaned  back  with  a  sudden  sense  of  safety  and  well-being;  for 
almost  the  first  time  in  her  pitifully  independent  life  she  felt  the  blessed 
comfort  of  being  cared  for,  fussed  over. 

"Of  course  I  like  it,"  she  said. 

She  ate  hungrily ;  and  over  the  daisy-wreathed  rim  of  his  shaving-mug 
the  man  watched  her  with  amused,  friendly  eyes. 

"Oh — it  was  a  lovely  party!"  the  girl  said;  and  wistfully:  "It's  over 
now." 

"But  there's  tomorrow." 

"And  then  what?"  she  queried.     "Only  work — and  more  work!" 

"After  tomorrow  ?  Oh,  you  just  wait  and  see !"  There  was  a  little, 
trilling  undertone  back  of  the  amusement  in  his  voice — a  quickening  note  as 
young  as  Spring,  as  old  as  Life  itself.  "After  tomorrow?  More  tomor- 
rows !  Years  and  years  full  of  'em !" 

"Oh !"  the  girl  breathed.     Then:     "What  time  is  it?" 

He  looked  at  his  Ingersoll  watch. 

"Why— it's  half-past  twelve!" 

"Half-past  twelve !"  The  girl  scrambled  from  the  chair,  drawing  the 
bath-robe  in  about  her  feet.  "Half-past  twelve!"  she  repeated,  faintly. 

He  threw  back  his  head  with  a  ringing  boyish  laugh. 

"Perfectly  shocking,  isn't  it,  Miss — ' 

"Marjorie  Jones,"  she  told  him. 

He  opened  the  door  of  his  closet,  and  brought  out  for  her  a  pair  of 
Turkish  slippers. 

"Miss  Jones" — he  bowed  formally,  one  slipper  pressed  against  his 
heart,  "I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you ;  and  I  am  Bob  Smith,  at  your  service." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  door.  He  smiled  down  at  her,  and  the 
girl  smiled  shyly  back,  straight  into  his  gray  eyes.  Suddenly,  breaking  the 
silence : 

"May  I  see  you  home,  Miss  Jones  ?" 

[This  charming  story,  by  a  promising  young  writer,  is  told  in  2300  words.] 


The  hurt  of  a  heart  is  a  cruel  thing 
And  cries  from  a  lonely  place. 

The  speed  of  a  soul,  with  a  weary  wing, 
Is  born  of  the  Master's  grace. 

HESTER  A.  DICKINSON. 


REVERIE. 

"I  have  not  missed  the  charm  of  power, 

The  world  has  been  benign  to  me ; 

But  Fate  nor  Fame  will  ne'er  restore 

Life's  morning  sun  to  gild  the  sea." 


36  THE   SILHOUETTE 


FUNNYETTES 

A    SUBURBAN     SUNDAY.* 

(Scenario  of  a  Ten-Minute  Vaudeville  Sketch.) 
HARRIET  HOLMES   HASLETT. 

CHARACTERS— 

Mr.  Bluebell 

Mrs.  Bluebell. 

Bing,  the   Chinese   cook. 

The  Children,  unseen. 

SCENE— 

The  Bluebells'  living-room  at  Bayberry  Meadows. 
Entrances  Center,  Right,  and  Left. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bluebell  are  discovered  finishing  Sunday  morning  breakfast.  They 
have  recently  moved  into  the  country.  They  speak  of  the  welcome  quiet.  Sounds  of 
thumping  and  cries  of  children  in  next  room.  Mrs.  Bluebell  anticipates  pleasure  enter- 
taining friends ;  Mr.  Bluebell  thinks  it  an  opportunity  to  get  away  from  them. 

Mr.  Bluebell  lights  pipe.  Mrs.  Bluebell,  magazine  in  hand,  seats  herself  in  easy 
chair. 

Enter  Bing;  clears  table;  asks:    "How  many  for  dinner?" 

Mrs.  Bluebell  tells  him:  "Only  the  family."  After  dinner  he  may  go  out  for  the 
day.  Exit  Bing,  grinning. 

Telephone  rings.  Mr.  Bluebell  answers.  Half-a-dozen  friends  are  coming  to 
spend  the  day !  Mrs.  Bluebell  springs  up. 

"Horrors!     There's  not  enough  bread,  butter  meat — anything!" 

Mr.  Bluebell  assures  friends  they  are  "Delighted!  come  right  along!"  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bluebell  face  each  other  in  dismay.  Noise  from  children  ;  Mrs.  Bluebell  scolds. 
She  calls  Bing;  tells  him  he  cannot  go  out.  "Six  more  for  dinner."  Bing  mutters; 
exit  L. 

Mrs.  Bluebell  sends  Mr.  Bluebell  out  to  sweep  the  porch.  As  he  reaches  the  door, 
broom  in  hand,  she  recalls  him  to  help  tidy  the  room.  As  he  sets  to  work,  she  sends 
him  out  to  kill  a  chicken — "Anybody's  chicken !" 

Mrs.  Bluebell  goes  to  telephone,  calls  up  neighbors ;  begs  for  provisions.  Receives 
promises  of  cream,  and  other  necessaries.  Calls  Bing ;  tells  him  to  get  provisions. 

He  refuses;  "I  go." 

"Where?" 

"Go  city;  no  come  back." 

"No,  no,  Bing !     Don't  go  !" 

"You  give  me  more  money?" 

"Yes,  yes !     I'll  pay  you  more." 

"All  lite— I  stay."     Exit  Bing,  L. 

Mrs.  Bluebell  rushes  about,  tidying  room,  at  the  same  time  taking  hairpins  out 
of  her  hair  and  unhooking  gown.  Cries  from  children.  She  scolds.  Loud  squawks 
from  chicken. 

Enter  Mr.  Bluebell,  brandishing  big,  murderous-looking  ax,  blood-stained ;  diminu- 
tive chicken.  Lays  chicken  on  top  piano.  "What  next?" 

Mrs.  Bluebell  sends  Mr.  Bluebell  next  door  for  ice-cream  freezer. 

Enter  Bing,  carrying  basket  of  provisions.  Mrs.  Bluebell  gives  him  directions 
about  dinner.  Bing  grumpy.  "No  like.  Too  much  work.  I  go." 

"No,  no,  Bing !     I'll  pay  you  more." 

"All  lite,  I  stay."     Exit  Bing,  L.,  with  basket. 

Enter  Mr.  Bluebell  with  ice-cream  freezer.  He  is  warm ;  dumps  freezer  on  floor. 
Mrs.  Bluebell  sends  him  out  L.  to  help  Bing  with  ice-cream.  Sound  of  freezer-crank 
turning. 

*  "A  Suburban  Sunday"  is  awarded  a  special  prize. 


THE  SILHOUETTE  37 

Mrs.  Bluebell  tells  children  she  will  soon  come  and  dress  them.  Telephone  rings ; 
Mrs.  Bluebell  answers.  Expression  of  joy  comes  over  face.  The  party  has  missed  the 
train;  the  next  will  be  too  late.  Mrs.  Bluebell  expatiates  on  her  grief.  Hangs  up,  calls 
Mr.  Bluebell.  Express  their  relief. 

Enter  Bing.     "No  company,  Bing.     You  go  city ;  stay  all  clay." 

"You  pay  me  more,  I  come  back." 

"Yes,  yes !  we'll  pay  you  anything.     You  come  back. 

Exit  Bing.  Mr.  Bluebell  lights  pipe.  Mrs.  Bluebell,  magazine  in  hand,  seats  her- 
self in  easy  chair. 

Curtain. 


JUST  SO! 
AMY  W.  HAMLIN. 

Thoughts,  expressed  in  words  that  rhyme, 
Rhythmic  meter  set  to  time, 
Mellow  cadence,  language  terse, 
Constitute  poetic  verse. 

Thoughts,  replete  with  wit  or  sense 
Clothed  with  wit  and  eloquence, 
Sans  the  feet  with  rhyming  toes, 
Constitute  poetic  prose. 


BUD    FUN. 
FLORENS  FOLSOM. 

Pink-nosed  buds  that  peep  and  wriggle 
From  their  calyx-hoods,  and  giggle 
Till  the  priggish  Elder  flowers 

Box  their  ears ; 

Quaker  buds  with  hair  combed  tightly — 
Sleek  hair,  meek  hair — wait  politely 
Till  they  hear  the  tinkling  shower's : 

"Hurry,  dears !" 


AN  OLD  LOVE  LETTER. 
KATHRYN  M.  PLACE. 

'Now  this,"  said  the  Editor's  wife, 
'Is  a  truly-true  page  from  life." 

(She  reads  it  to  him.) 
'Great      '  Deleted >    !    Who  wrote  that  goo?" 

She  burbled:     "  Twas  you!  you!!  YOU!!! 

(And  now  they  are  divorced.) 


"IN  THE  SPRING." 

MARTHA  NEWLAND. 

In  the  Spring  a  darker  color  tints  the  curtains  of  our  room; 
In  the  Spring  the  lacy  cobweb  shows  the  spider  at  his  loom ; 
In  the  Spring  the  hidden  longing  for  the  dainty  we  approve 
Is  repressed  no  more  by  saying:  "Eggs  are  dear  for  angel  food. 


AN  EAR  TO  THE  GROUND. 

What  does  the  reading  public  say? 
"We  want  the  stories  of  Today — 
From   San  Francisco  to  Broadway, 
From  Mexico  to  Mandalay." 


38  THE   SILHOUETTE 

SHOVELNOSE    SPINS    A    YARN. 
SHIRLEY  MANSFIELD. 

William  A.  Butts,  second  mate  of  the  good  ship  Harvester,  and  John 
Kelly,  A.  R.,  otherwise  known  as  Shovelnose  Kelly,  had  been  handed  thirty 
days  each,  by  an  unsympathetic  judge  for  participation  in  an  Embarcadero 
row.  Long  before  the  expiration  of  that  time,  quarterdeck  and  fo 'castle  met 
on  equal  terms.  After  nursing  his  wrath  and  bruises  for  two  days,  Mr. 
Butts  remarked  one  morning — quite  as  though  resuming  a  previous  con- 
versation : 

"Yes,  I  would  give  three  months  advance  money  to  have  that  hook-and- 
thimble-eyed  looking  policeman  aboard  the  Harvester." 

"Or  the  ol'  whaler,  the  Cape  Horn  Pidgcon,"  Shovelnose  amended,  "the 
hungriest  damn  thing  that  ever  gathered  barnacles.  Pound  an'  pint,  ac- 
cordin'  to  the  Act,  with  burgoo  fer  breakfast  fer  the  watch  that  had  the  eight 
hours  out.  The  Ol'  Man  had  his  wife  an'  two  kids  aboard.  We  called  'em 
kids,  though  Kate,  the  girl,  was  eighteen  an'  the  boy  twenty." 

Shovelnose  reached  into  the  cavernous  pocket  of  his  monkey  pea-jacket, 
and  bringing  forth  the  remains  of  a  badly  battered  cigar,  bit  it  in  half ;  Mr. 
Butts  refused  the  burnt  end,  and  chewed  contentedly. 

"Where  was  I  ?"  inquired  Kelly.  "Oh,  yes,  aboard  the  ol'  Pidgeon.  We 
are  rollin'  along  under  easy  sail  one  mornin'  when  the  fourth  mate  in  the 
crow's  nest  sings  out : 

"  'Blo-ow  !    There  goes  Flukes !    Blo-ow  !' 
"The  skipper  makes  a  meggyphone  out  of  his  hands  an'  yells : 
'  'Where  away?' 

"  'Two  points  on'  the  lee  bow,  sir;  a  school  of  sperm.' 
"Three  boats  is  lowered  an'  away  we  goes  after  them  bloomin'  whales. 
I  am  pullin'  bow  oar  in  the  mate's  boat.  Once  I  catches  a  crab  with  my  oar, 
splashin'  considerable  water  on  the  mate  an'  the  rest  of  the  crew.  He  can't 
holler  fer  fear  of  scarin'  the  whale  we're  after ;  but  I  can  tell,  the  way  his 
mouth  works,  every  different  kind  of  name  he's  callin'  me. 

"I  no  sooner  gets  in  stroke  again  when  the  boat  steerer  heaves  his  har- 
poon at  the  whale.  We  sheers  clear,  an'  lays  on  our  oars  fer  a  while  to  see 
what  Flukes'll  do.  He  tries  to  feel  around  for  the  boat  with  his  tail.  When 
he  can't  coax  it  within  reach,  he  tries  to  put  a  couple  of  figger-of-eight  knots 
in  himself. 

"Durin'  all  this  gymnastic  business,  the  boat  steerer  uses  him  fer  a  target 
with  bombs  from  his  shoulder  gun.  All  at  once  Flukes  decides  to  go  under. 
After  soundin'  about  half  a  tub  of  line,  he  comes  to  the  surface  an'  starts 
away*  from  the  ship  dead  to  wind'rd.  The  mate  holds  the  line  with  a  turn 
'round  the  loggerhead  aft.  We  gets  our  oars  in,  and  sits  watchin'  the  gulls 
tryin' — an'  givin'  up — to  overhaul  us. 

"That  boat  is  out  of  the  water  half  her  length  for'rd,  while  her  stern  rail 
is  three  feet  below  the  surface ;  but  we  are  travelin'  so  fast  the  water  can't 
run  inboard.  We  keeps  up  this  speed  fer  twenty  minutes,  an'  finally  runs 
into  a  dense  fog — thick,  like  mush. 

"The  strain  comes  off  the  line  an'  we  starts  haulin'  it  in,  so  as  to  get  close 
fer  another  shot.  We  tries  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  whale  through  the  fog. 


THE  SILHOUETTE  39 

Then  thing's  happens.  A  huge  black  mass  rears  out  of  the  water  an'  comes 
down  across  the  boat.  Me?  I  just  leans  over  the  gunwale  an'  am  in  the 
water  before  the  whale  hits  the  boat.  The  others  is  too  scared  to  move. 

"Quick  as  I  am,  I  gets  foul  of  some  "wreckage,  an'  sees  about  a  million 
stars  as  I  goes  down.  Natcherly,  I  starts  in  tryin'  to  get  to  the  surface,  an' 
soon  arrives.  All  'round  me  is  the  wreckage  of  the  boat  an'  her  gear,  an'  the 
battered  remains  of  six  dead  men.  Close  to  is  the  whale,  his  long,  glistenin' 
body  risin'  an'  fallin'  to  the  swell.  There's  no  wind,  an'  the  fog  is  thick 
enough  to  chew. 

"I  tell  you,  it  looks  like  Davy  Jones'  locker  fer  little  Willie.  The  only 
thing  big  enough  to  float  me  is  the  whale,  so  I  paddles  over  to  his  tail  an' 
tries  to  climb  aboard.  Lucky  fer  me  my  sheath  knife's  still  with  me,  or  I 
never  could  have  made  it.  I  cuts  notches  in  his  blubber,  so's  to  get  hand- 
an'-toe  hold ;  an'  after  a  good  many  slides,  lands  on  top. 

"Well,  when  I  gets  me  wind,  I  starts  coonin'  it  up  an'  along  his  back  to 
about  midships,  where  he  has  the  most  beam.  There  the  motion  is  less ;  an' 
if  it  don't  come  on  to  blow,  it's  above  the  wash  of  the  seas.  I  cuts  out  a 
piece  of  blubber  about  two  feet  square,  bigger  on  the  surface  than  next  the 
meat,  so's  it  wouldn't  fall  inboard,  to  use  as  a  hatch  cover.  Then  I  starts 
to  carve  out  a  hole  big  enough  fer  shelter.  I  cuts  down  quite  a  ways,  when 
I  sees  the  water  keg  from  the  smashed  whaleboat  alongside.  That  reminds 
me  I  better  save  all  I  can  from  the  wreckage.  I  cuts  a  few  steps  down  to 
the  water  line,  an'  drops  in  the  water.  I  h'ists  all  the  gear  I  can  find  aboard 
the  whale,  drivin'  a  couple  of  broken  oars  in  the  blubber  to  lash  it  to.  A  tin 
box  of  hardtack  an'  the  water  beaker  goes  down  in  the  cabin.  The  boat's 
mast  is  gone,  but  I  finds  the  two  pieces  an'  the  sail — 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Baron  Munchaussen  ?"  broke  in  Mr.  Butts. 
"Hear  of  him !"  exclaimed  Shovelnose,  "I  was  shipmates  with  him  one 
trip  'round  the  Horn  from  Hamburg,  in  the  ol'  Glory  of  the  Seas.     He  was 
third  mate  of  her.     As  I  was  sayin' : 

"When  I  gets  all  that  work  done,  I  turns  in  an'  has  a  good  night's  rest. 
Next  mornin'  the  fog  is  gone.  No  ship  in  sight.  Bein'  hungry,  I  sets  fire 
to  a  small  chunk  of  blubber;  it  tastes  mighty  fine  with  the  hardtack.  After 
breakfast,  I  gets  the  two  pieces  of  mast  lashed  together,  an'  uses  the  for'rd 
blowhole  for  a  mast  step.  With  the  sails  set  an'  drawin',  the  whale's  head 
slowly  pays  off  before  the  wind,  an'  I  sets  a  course  fer  the  Japan  coast, 
makes  a  piece  of  whale  line  fast  to  each  fluke  of  his  tail,  an'  manages  to 
steer—" 

"You  made  a  wheel  out  of  whalebone  for  tiller  ropes,  I  suppose  ? 
"Looky  here,  sir !"  expostulated  Shovelnose.  "Are  you  spinnin'  this  yarn, 
or  me?  This  is  like  an  Irish  parliament — everybody  talkin'  an'  nobody 
listenin'.  I  tell  you  what  I  did  do.  I  carved  Kate's  name— Kate's  the  Ol' 
Man's  girl — in  big  letters  on  both  sides  of  the  whale's  head.  My  craft 
looked  more  shipshape,  havin'  a  name  on  it. 

"One  night  the  sky  looks  bad.     I  puts  a  double  reef  in  the  mainsail,  an 
lashes  the  tail  down  hard.    As  the  seas  start  to  roll  aboard,  I  puts  the  hatch 
down,  an'  turns  in  for  the  night.     Talk  about  your  submarines— we  was 
under  water  half  the  time !     I  had  to  turn  out  about  eight  bells  in  the  first 
watch,  an'  plug  up  the  blow  hole  I  was  usin'  fer  a  galley  smokestack. 
"The  next  mornin'  the  bloom  in'  tail  is  froze  stiff  an'  I  can't  move  it— 
"Why  didn't  you  cut  it  off?" 
"I  tries  to,"  answered  Shovelnose,  overlooking  the  interruption.       I  m 


40  THE  SILHOUETTE 

away  aft,  cuttin'  at  that  tail,  when  a  most  amazin'  thing-  happens.     All  at 
once  a  big  chunk  of  ambergris  comes  to  surface  right  under  me  hand ! 

"All  along  I  has  remembered  the  man  who  stayed  three  days  in  the  belly 
of  a  whale,  an'  come  out  all  right.  I  reasons  it  this  way :  'Why  am  I  bein' 
kept  alive  an'  kickin  if  I'm  not  to  be  picked  up  by  some  ship?'  I  knows,  too, 
that  I'm  better  off  than  Jonah.  He  was  in  the  steerage,  you  might  say,  while 
I  has  a  cabin  'tween  decks. 

"I'm  thinkin'  about  how  I'm  goin'  to  spend  me  fortune  when  I  hears  the 
shoutin'  of  human  voices.  A  muffled  report  sounds  near  me ;  an'  covered 
with  minced  whalemeat,  I'm  nearly  blowed  out  of  me  cabin.  I  gets  me  head 
rut  of  the  hatch,  an'  there,  close  to,  is  a  whaleboat,  already  fast  to  me  whale. 
The  boat  steerer  is  aimin'  to  shoot  another  bomb,  when  I  lets  out  a  yell  you 
could  hear  a  mile.  The  boat's  crew  just  sits  an'  stares,  their  eyes  poppin' 
out  of  their  heads. 

"  'Boat  ahoy !'  I  yells.  'Wot  are  you  lubbers  doin'  fast  to  another  man's 
whale?'  None  of  'em  seems  to  know  me,  an'  no  wonder!  I  am  plastered 
all  over  with  a  sort  of  pury  of  blubber  an'  whalemeat.  When  the  mate  had 
cussed  himself  out  of  breath,  I  says,  callin'  him  by  name:  'How's  the  ol' 
Pidgeon — an'  young  Katie?' 

'  'Well,  damme  fer  a  deck  swab,  if  it  ain't  Shovelnose!'  says  he,  holdin' 
his  sides  while  he  laughs. 

"I  passes  me  fortune  into  the  boat  an'  gets  aboard.  The  ol'  ship  sails  by 
us  an'  heaves  to,  just  to  leeward.  Nothin'  is  too  good  fer  me  after  they  gets 
a  sight  of  that  ambergris — 

"Of  course  Kate  fell  on  your  manly  bosom  and  wept  tears  of  joy,  and 
you  bought  government  bonds  with  your  money?" 

"No  tears  of  joy  is  sprung,"  Shovelnose  yawned  sleepily.  "When  I  goes 
ashore."  he  continued,  answering  the  other  half  of  the  question,  "I  charters 
the  Fair  Wind  saloon  fer  twenty-four  hours  an'  keeps  open  house." 

[Those  who  admire  W.  W.  Jacobs'  style  will  revel  in  this  story,  by  a  new  writer.  In  ih» 
opinion  of  the  editors  of  THE  SILHOUETTE,  Shirley  Mansfield  is  destined  to  wrest  the  salt-water 
laurels  from  Jacobs'  brow.  The  story  is  told  in  1800  words.] 


THE  SILHOUETTE  supplements  the  announcement  of  its  short  short 
story  contest — for  the  best  story,  to  fifteen  hundred  words,  $25.00,  for 
the  second  best,  $10.00,  for  the  third  best,  $5.00 — with  this  offer: 

Stories  of  merit  failing  to  win  a  prize  will  be  marketed  by  THE 
SILHOUETTE,  if  the  writer  so  desires.  A  small  commission  will  be 
charged.  The  receipt  of  scores  of  letters  from  editors,  giving  their 
needs  and  requirements,  has  decided  the  editors  of  THE  SILHOUETTE 
on  this  course. 

Writers  may  submit  as  many  stories  as  they  wish ;  but  each  story 
must  be  accompanied  by  the  reading  fee,  $.50,  and  by  stamped  ad- 
dressed envelope. 


THE  SILHOUETTE  41 


THE    MORROW    CLUB. 

Much  interest  has  been  roused  by  the  announcement  that  the  author, 
W.  C.  Morrow,  of  San  Francisco,  is  soon  to  start  a  club  for  lovers  of  litera- 
ture and  good  English,  and  also  to  help  those  wishing  to  become  authors. 
The  formation  of  this  club  has  been  urged  on  Mr.  Morrow  by  those  wishing 
such  a  club  to  be  conducted  by  a  writer  of  experience  and  standing,  with  a 
thorough  understanding  of  his  art  and  with  skill  in  imparting  it  to  others. 
We  may  be  assured  that  with  Mr.  Morrow  in  charge  the  purpose  of  the 
club  will  be  earnest  and  that  practical  results  will  be  assured.  The  time  and 
place  of  meetings  have  not  yet  been  announced,  but  all  wishing  for  particulars 
may  address  Mr.  Morrow  at  his  residence,  1871  Sacramento  street,  San 
Francisco. 

Concerning  this  important  announcement,  the  San  Francisco  Examiner 
of  March  12th  said  : 

"Members  of  the  literary  clubs  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  W.  C.  Morrow, 
the  famous  California  author,  will  open  an  evening  club  for  the  study  of 
literature. 

"The  aim  of  the  club  will  be  to  bring  together  in  helpful  association  not 
only  those  wishing  to  master  the  writing  of  stories,  novels,  sketches,  plays, 
poems,  essays,  etc.,  but  all  desiring  a  finer  appreciation  of  literature  and  the 
English  language.  Through  this  club  Mr.  Morrow  hopes  to  discover  more 
of  the  striking  literary  ability  for  which  California  is  distinguished. 

"No  qualifications  for  membership  will  be  imposed.  An  important  pur- 
pose of  the  club  is  to  help  those  most  needing  its  benefits.  The  club  will  meet 
twice  a  month,  in  the  evening.  Dues  will  be  one  dollar  a  month.  A  feature 
of  each  meeting  will  be  an  instructive  and  inspiring  address  by  Mr.  Morrow." 


EDITORIAL    TESTIMONY. 

I  think  you  are  right  in  judging  that  the  demand  for  good  stories  of  ten, 
twelve  and  fifteen  hundred  words  exceeds  the  supply.  This  kind  of  short 
short  story  does  not  come  into  this  office  often.  I  think  we  have  ^  bought 
about  every  really  good  one  which  has  been  submitted.  In  E.  J.  O'Brien's 
analysis  of  the  best  magazine  stories  of  last  year,  made  for  the  Boston 
Transcript,  he  gave  Sunset  a  creditable  report  and  listed,  as  stories  of  dis- 
tinction, several  of  these  short  lengths.  They  must  be  very  good. 

I  read  a  story,  in  Collier's,  I  think,  one  thousand  words  long,  telling  of  a 
man's  love  for  the  moving  picture  of  a  girl.  If  you  know  of  anyone  who  has 
another  one  thousand  words  as  good  I  should  be  glad  of  a  chance  at  the 

material. 

Sincerely  yours, 

CHARLES  K.  FIELD. 


42  THE  SILHOUETTE 

THE  LITERARY  MARKET. 
TORREY  CONNOR. 

The  wise  writer,  with  an  eye  to  the  marketing-  of  his  wares,  knows  that 
there  is  a  demand  for  the  short  short  story. 

Editors  complain  that  the  mails  are  burdened  with  long-  short  stories, 
with  but  now  and  then  a  welcome  short  short  story — the  "literary  appetizer," 
as  Mr.  Vance  styles  it,  that  gives  a  piquant  flavor  to  the  magazine's  make-up. 

A  long  short  story  is  more  easily  written — yes.  But  why  do  the  easy 
task  ?  When  your  long  story  is  finished,  it  must  take  its  slim  chance  among 
countless  long  stories ;  and  all  the  while  the  editor  is  sending  out  scouts  to 
scan  the  literary  horizon  for  the  other  kind. 

Why  do  writers  build  a  Chinese  Wall  of  non-essentials — dragging  in- 
troductions, sentences  so  involved  that,  like  a  circle,  they  end  nowhere, 
tedious  pages  of  description — and  tuck  the  story  away  down  behind  it?  Do 
they  expect  the  busy  editor  to  mount  the  wall  and  look  over?  Or  cut  a 
passage  through  the  obstructions  that  he  may  get  at  the  story  ? 

In  scores  of  letters  received  from  editors  of  magazines  during  the  past 
three  months,  THE  SILHOUETTE'S  advocacy  of  the  short  short  story  is  upheld. 
One  editor  writes  that  his  magazine  has  sent  twenty-five  letters  to  contrib- 
utors known  to  him,  asking  for  short  short  stories.  Four  editors  have  writ- 
ten that  they  will  pay  more  for  short  short  stories  than  for  those  of  greater 
length.  Lay  an  ear  to  the  ground,  Writers ! 

Harry  E.  Maule,  editor  of  Short  Stories,  has  this  to  say  (in  The  Writer} 
of  the  short  short  story : 

"Many  a  good  tale  is  ruined  by  telling  too  much,  by  loading  it  with  need- 
less and  inartistic,  not  to  say  cumbersome,  facts,  when  a  little  craftsmanlike 
omission  would  have  left  a  worthy  piece  of  work. 

"If  the  author  had  had  clearly  before  him  the  kind  of  structure  he  wished 
to  build,  he  doubtless  would  not  have  added  unsightly  cupolas,  and  unneces- 
sary arches.  This  new  school  of  story  writing,  or  this  genre  of  story,  is 
essentially  American  in  kind,  manner  and  origin.  It  fills  a  well-defined 
want.  Artistically,  there  is  much  to  be  said  of  the  form." 

The  June  number  of  this  magazine  will  publish  a  long  and  interesting 
communication  from  Mr.  Maule,  written  for  THE  SILHOUETTE. 

The  Editor  Magazine  says : 

"The  writing  of  short  stories  presupposes  an  apprenticeship,  for  there 
are  essentials  that  enter  into  a  good  short  story.  The  technique  must  be 
mastered,  and  the  mechanics  must  be  studied,  before  success  will  come  to 
the  writer.  Only  with  practice  and  perseverance  can  success  be  achieved. 
Acceptable  stories  cannot  be  dashed  off  in  a  hurry,  or  written  in  a  few  idle 
hours.  Work  is  necessary.  Editors  read  all  stories  submitted,  but  they 
cannot  undertake  to  criticise  stories,  or  to  point  out  wherein  they  are  de- 
fective." 

Note:  THE  SILHOUETTE  does  "undertake"  to  criticise  stories,  and  to 
point  out  wherein  they  are  defective ;  in  short,  if  there  be  good  material  on 


THE  SILHOUETTE  43 

which  to  work,  THE  SILHOUETTE  "undertakes"  to  make  your  unsalable  story 
marketable.  THE  SILHOUETTE  is  for  those  who  write — and  those  who  are 
trying  to  write. 

Learn  hoiv  to  zvrite  silhouettes. 

This  newest  form  of  story  ranges  from  one  thousand,  to  one  thousand 
five  hundred  words.  From  magazines  throughout  the  country  have  come 
letters  (which  will  be  published)  giving  the  editorial  view  on  the  subject  of 
the  short  short  story.  Moreover,  the  editors  express  an  interest  in,  and 
a  desire  to  see,  THE  SILHOUETTE.  This  means  that  the  names  of  the  "tin- 
arrived,"  whose  work  qualifies  for  TFE  SILHOUETTE,  will  be  brought  to  the 
immediate  attention  of  every  editor  of  prominence  in  the  United  States. 

THE  SILHOUETTE  will  not  appear  on  the  news  stands ;  and  to  be  a  con- 
tributor you  must  first  become  a  subscriber.  Price,  $1.00  per  year.  Each 
contribution — including  brief  essays  and  poems — must  be  accompanied  by  a 
reading  fee  of  $.50.  This  entitles  the  writer  to  a  criticism  ;  and  the  story, 
essay  or  poem  may  be  entered  in  competition  for  the  quarterly  prize  of  $5, 
or  for  any  one  of  the  special  prizes  that  will  be  given  from  time  to  time. 
Always  inclose  stamped  envelope  for  the  return  of  unavailable  MSS. 

The  time  of  THE  SILHOUETTE  prize  story  competition,  $25.00  for  the 
best  story  to  fifteen  hundred  words,  $10  for  the  second  best  story,  $5  for 
the  third  best  story,  has  been  extended  to  June  1st. 

Following  this  contest,  there  will  be  competitions  in  one-act  plays,  one- 
reel  scenarios,  a  poetical  contest,  etc. 


LETTERS  FROM  EDITORS  AND  SUBSCRIBERS. 

"Editor  THE  SILHOUETTE  : 

"Two  miles  below  me  is  the  end  of  the  mail  route.  If  one  is  on  watch 
precisely  at  ten,  one  may  see  the  canopy-topped  mail  cart  and  the  old  white 
horse.  When  they  stop  at  the  middle  box  in  the  row,  I  whistle  to  Friday 
and  we  are  off  down  the  canon. 

"Yesterday  the  box  held  a  great  treat  and  pleasure,  for  therein  was  a  copy 
of  THE  SILHOUETTE.  May  I  send  my  earnest  wishes  for  the  success  and 
long  life  of  the  magazine?  Surely,  it  will  win  both. 

"The  prize  story  in  the  January  number,  "The  Farther  Vision,"  by  Julia 
B.  Foster,  was  vividly  with  me  when  I  awoke  this  morning;  and  even  now 
I  can  see  the  yard  of  The  Asylum  for  the  Blind. 

"  'The  rays  of  the  hot  sun  seemed  woven  into  a  covering  for  the  yard. 
No  wind  entered ;  no  perfume  from  the  flower  beds  escaped  above  the  high, 
green  hedges.  The  tall  brick  building  absorbed  the  heat  only  to  give  it  out 
again ;  the  creeping  ivy  hung,  listless.' 

"I  can  see,  too,  the  burden  in  the  chair — the  man,  'his  blind  eyes  staring, 
his  outstretched  legs  blanket-covered.' 

"It  is  splendid  to  know  that  you  are  all  making  good.  As  for  me — Well, 
I  might  have,  too,  had  I  not  fallen  heir  to  my  Topnotch'  attic.  Such  a  won- 
derful attic,  high  above  the  world,  flower-carpeted,  paneled  with  oak  and 
laurel,  and  with  a  vaulted  ceiling  of  blue." 

HELEN  ELLSWORTH  WRIGHT. 


44  THE   SILHOUETTE 


"Editor  THE  SILHOUETTE: 

lorning,  a 
ith  vision 

Editor  The  Star,  San  Francisco. 


"The  magazine  came  this  morning-,  and  I  have  just  been  deep  in  its  con- 
tents and  intents.    It  is  keen  with  vision  and  inspiration." 


"Editor  THE  SILHOUETTE  : 

"You  are  perfectly  right  in  assuming  that  the  demand  for  good  but  very 
short  stories  greatly  exceeds  the  supply.  We  have  a  market  in  our  women's 
magazines  for  stories  that  can  be  told  in  from  fifteen  hundred  to  two 
thousand  words ;  and  we  would  gladly  pay  as  good  a  price  for  such  stories, 
if  they  have  real  fiction  values,  as  for  a  five  or  six  thousand  word  story.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  very  short  fiction  story  is  harder  to  get  because  it  is 
more  difficult  to  write. 

"You  have  brought  up  a  live  topic  in  this  discussion." 

GEORGE  BARRY  MALLON. 


THESE  WANT  THE  SHORT  SHORT  STORY: 

Everybody's  Magazine,  Butterick  Building,  New  York. 

The  Delineator,  Butterick  Building,  New  York. 

The  Designer,  Butterick  Building,  New  York. 

The  Woman's  Magazine,  Butterick  Building,  New  York. 

Adventure,  Butterick  Building,  New  York. 

The  Youth's  Companion,  Boston,  Mass.,  advertises  for  stories  twelve 
hundred  words  in  length. 

Sunset  Magazine,  San  Francisco,  would  gladly  use  good  stories  of  one 
thousand  words — if  they  are  to  be  had. 

Pictorial  Revietv,  22G  West  39th  Street,  New  York. 


SHORT   STORY   DIAGRAM. 

AUGUSTA  FOWLER. 

Choose  your  steed  for  the  race.  Set  your  story  firmly  in  the  saddle 
Find  the  name  for  the  story  in  the  combined  action  of  horse  and  rider. 

Theme:  Start  up  hill  in  a  hurry,  unless  your  story  requires  a  going 
down  hill  for  development.  In  that  case,  go  fast — or  very  slowly — as  re- 
quired by  your  viewpoint.  On  the  road  ahead  of  horse  and  rider  scatter 
obstacles — to  wound,  to  hold,  to  deter,  or  to  deflect  his  course. 

Use  only  necessary  subsiduary  characters.  Use  a  friend  to  help,  or  to 
hinder;  a  whip  to  goad,  or  to  punish,  or  to  defend.  Use  a  girl  or  a  man 
to  lure,  or  to  injure,  or  to  betray.  Show  the  rider  always  struggling  to 
accomplish  his  purpose,  to  reach  his  goal.  Make  his  object  of  so  much 
importance  to  the  story  (object  not  known  to  the  reader)  that  the  reader 
feels  himself  on  the  back  of  the  horse,  and  undergoing  the  trials  and  adven- 
tures of  the  man  in  the  saddle.  Make  the  reader  as  anxious  to  win  as  if  he 
were  in  that  saddle,  were  that  man. 


